


Put a Little Love in Your Heart

by MissDavis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Also Established Relationship, Canon Compliant, Christmas, Explicit Sexual Content, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I combined some prompts so my Advent calendar now has less than 24 days, M/M, Mutual Pining, Parenthood, Parentlock, Post-Season/Series 04, Winter, because these will likely jump around in time, but only in chapters 2 and 7, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:07:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 16,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27809590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDavis/pseuds/MissDavis
Summary: Sherlock Holmes and John Watson will both tell you that they are not sentimental men, and that neither thinks the holiday season is anything more than a series of dates on a calendar. Don't believe a word they say.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 440
Kudos: 336
Collections: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. Tis the Season

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again! A series of ficlets, some Christmas-themed, some not, all written at the last minute by yours truly. If you'd like to join us, you can find the prompt list here: [2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/2020_Advent_Ficlet_Challenge/profile). Enjoy!

John got home from work on the first of December to find that someone had decorated 221 Baker Street from top to bottom. Several someones, it appeared, given that outside the building there were fairy lights strung across the balcony railings and wreaths hung above the windows, at a height that only Sherlock could have reached. Once John opened the door and went inside, he saw that Mrs. Hudson had clearly been at work, as well. He could smell the scent of ginger and molasses baking, and the armchair and table in the entryway were both draped in green and red crochet.

He hoisted his work satchel over his shoulder and climbed the stairs, fatigue suddenly hitting him after a late shift at the surgery. It was nearly Rosie's bedtime, though he doubted that Sherlock would have thought to feed her and give her a bath, especially if he'd been focused on decorating all day. Which he must have been doing, because now here was a Christmas tree at the top of the stairs, tucked into the corner outside his flat. It was small, only about a meter high, and decorated in toddler-safe fabric and plastic ornaments, with a heavy emphasis on yellow and purple, Rosie's current favorite colors. Based on the clustered positioning of the ornaments, Rosie herself had been in charge of trimming this tree.

John glanced up the steps that led to his and Rosie's rooms, wondering if he dared slip upstairs alone. He could take the time to change into more comfortable clothes and enjoy a few minutes of peace before he opened the door down here. He loved Rosie, and he loved Sherlock, each in their own way, but they could both also be exhausting, and at this hour of the evening, after being together all day, it was likely that one or both of them was either cranky or overexcited, and John didn't think he had the energy to deal with that right now. 

But he had to; that was his role. Sherlock looked after Rosie while he was at work, and then when John came home, he took care of them both, cooking and cleaning and seeing to the myriad other details of running a household. He didn't mind, most of the time. He was Rosie's father, so of course it was his responsibility to take care of her. As for Sherlock, well. He'd long ago come to terms with the relationship he and Sherlock had. They worked together, lived together, and were raising a child together, and while John still occasionally longed for something more, he was happy enough where they were. 

He sighed and stepped past the small Christmas tree to push open the door to the flat, expecting a disaster of decorating debris and either a small child or a large man to meet him at the door with a litany of complaints. 

The living room was a bit more cluttered than usual, but only because there was a stack of empty ornament boxes neatly piled to one side. Another, larger tree had been erected near the windows, this one festooned with tinsel and glittering baubles. Every level surface in the room held an unlit candle or snowman-themed display, and the fireplace mantel hosted colored lights and several sprigs of pine. 

No one greeted him as he stepped through the door, and when he looked to his right, he saw why. Sherlock was stretched out on his back on the sofa, eyes closed, with Rosie lying on her stomach on top of him. She'd slept that way when she was very small, but John hadn't seen her do it in at least a year, possibly not since she'd learned how to walk. But there was no doubt that she was asleep now; he could hear a delicate snore with each inhaled breath she took, a relic of the slight cold she'd recently overcome.

Sherlock had been asleep, as well, John knew, though he opened his eyes when John closed the door. "Hello, John," he said, his voice soft and thick with sleep. He smoothed Rosie's hair away from his face and smiled. "Welcome home."


	2. Bells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't expect to go smutty so soon this month, but here you go. Obviously, we have jumped ahead a few years in the timeline.

"I told you, if I heard one more bell jingling today...." John glanced up over his newspaper, then folded it down to stare at Sherlock. "You're not Rosie."

"Nope. I sent her off with Mrs. Hudson to buy toys to donate to her church's Christmas collection." Sherlock punctuated his words with a sway of his whole body. A light clatter of bells sounded from beneath his dressing gown. 

"What the hell, Sherlock? Now you're walking around wearing bells? You know I hate that damn headband she's had on all day. Are you trying to annoy me?"

"No. The opposite, actually."

John raised his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation, and after a moment, Sherlock stepped forward, nudging John's legs apart with a knee. John didn't resist. He spread his legs so Sherlock could stand between them, though if Sherlock was hoping for some sort of intimate encounter right now, the bells were certainly not helping his chances. 

"I'm trying to make you...." Sherlock paused, staring off to John's left for long enough that John glanced to see what he was looking at. There was nothing there but the screen for the fireplace. 

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

"What? Yes, yes. I was just trying to figure out a way to end that sentence without using the phrase 'ring my bells.' Sorry."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and gave another little wiggle of his body; since he was standing between John's legs now, this was significantly more pleasant, despite the accompanying jingles. "My goal is to provide you with more a positive association with the sound of bells than you currently have."

John narrowed his eyes. "Like Pavlov's dogs?"

"No, not at all. Okay, yes, maybe a bit." Sherlock pursed his lips for a moment. "Oh, come on, John. Stop making this difficult and just look at me, all right?" He tugged the belt of his dressing gown loose and let it fall open. 

John inhaled sharply. Sherlock was naked beneath the gown—that in itself was not unusual, especially when Rosie wasn't home, but he didn't normally walk around wearing nipple clamps beneath his clothes. The sight of the rubber-coated metal clips pinching his nipples into small, hard peaks was enough to make John not even mind the fact that the clamps were joined by a chain from which hung a pair of small, bright red bells, virtually identical to the ones Rosie had on the headband that had been driving him barmy all morning. 

Sherlock lifted a hand to his chest and gave the chain a slight pull, making himself gasp and lean forward, which caused the bells to jingle.

"Jesus, Sherlock. Really? I have to listen to those things every time I want to hear you make that sound?"

"Yep." Sherlock popped the 'p" in his reply. "And this is just the beginning. These aren't the only bells I'm wearing."

John glanced down at Sherlock's cock—it was starting to stand up amidst the surrounding tangle of dark hair, but there were no bells attached to it, thankfully. He reached out and gave Sherlock one long, firm stroke, then forced himself to look back up at his face again. "Where are the other ones?"

Sherlock grinned, a dark, filthy smile that only John ever got to see. "I added a few bells to one of the fox's tails we got. Remember how neither one of us was particularly into animal tails at first, until we discovered they could actually be quite pleasurable to wear?"

"Mm-hmm." The memory of the plug the tail was attached to was strong enough that John could practically feel it right now. He squirmed against his chair. "Let's go. Bedroom. Right now."

"Yes," Sherlock hissed, pulling his dressing gown closed as he turned away from John. He gave another full-body wiggle, and John could see just a suggestion of the tail beneath the gown. He didn't even notice the jingling sound as he chased Sherlock through the kitchen, down the hall and into their room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately I've discovered that my writing style and speed means any smutty ficlets are likely to be mostly dialogue and end before the action happens. If we followed them into the bedroom, there would be another 2000 words and I can't do that on a daily basis. You'll have to just imagine the rest. :)


	3. Chilly

Rosie hadn't played in the snow since she was a little girl, but after being cooped up indoors during the storm, she let Dad and Sherlock talk her into going outside with them. It was funny, because she remembered having to beg them to go to the park and play with her, and now it was the other way around.

They stayed outside for a long time, laughing and slipping on the icy paths and joining in the impromptu snowball fights that were popping up all over the park. Dad and Sherlock were probably some of the oldest people participating, but Dad had a deadly aim and Sherlock was so sneaky he could catch just about anyone and whack them with a snowball before they even knew he was there.

By the time they were done playing in the snow, it was getting dark out and all three of them were thoroughly soaked. When she was little, Rosie had had a snowsuit that kept her dry, but now she was just wearing a coat with jeans that turned heavy and uncomfortable when they got wet. She trailed behind Dad and Sherlock on the walk back home, watching as they linked arms and strolled together, seemingly oblivious to the chill that had seeped into Rosie's whole body once she stopped running around in the park.

When they got home, Rosie went straight upstairs to her room to get changed. She thought about crawling into bed to get warm under the blankets, but then Dad called up to her that he'd made hot chocolate and even though that was kind of a little kid drink, she still really liked it. She put on her fuzzy llama slippers and went downstairs.

Sherlock was kneeling in front of the fireplace, trying to get a fire started. Dad carried a tray with three mugs and a plate of biscuits out from the kitchen—all the mugs were filled with hot chocolate, not tea like they usually drank, so Rosie felt a little less childish drinking it. 

Dad set the tray down on the desk and crossed to stand next to Sherlock by the fireplace. "Need some help getting it going?"

"No, I think I've got it," Sherlock replied, and sure enough, a moment later, there was a small crackle as the fire started to spread across the kindling and down to the large logs he had laid in the grate. Sherlock leaned back, settling to sit on the floor with a groan.

"You sore from that fall you took on the ice?" Dad asked. 

"Not too bad. Just a bit bruised."

"Good thing you've got plenty of padding." Dad bent over and gave Sherlock a pat on his bum, then kissed the top of his head. 

Rosie looked away with a sigh. They were always doing stuff like that in front of her. She didn't mind that they loved each other, but they didn't have to show it off all the time when other people were around. None of her friends' parents did that.

"Hand me that blanket off your chair, would you, John?"

"You going to sit on the floor and drink your hot chocolate?"

"Yes. We all are. Come on, Rosie." Sherlock twisted around to look at her. "It's warm by the fire and there's room for all three of us here." He patted the space on the floor next to him.

Rosie wrinkled her nose for a second. She used to sit with Sherlock like that when she was little, before she was even in school, and he would read to her in front of the fire while they waited for Dad to get home from work. He always made sure she was sitting on the rug; if she moved off it and onto the bare floor, he would say she was too close to the fire. 

Dad pulled the blanket off his chair and tossed it to Sherlock, then pushed the chair out of the way so there would be more space on the floor. "Go on, Rosie," he said, and nodded towards the fire, then crossed the room to retrieve the tray of drinks. 

Rosie sighed again, but only because she didn't want them to know that she still loved doing things like this with them. She walked across the room and sat down on the edge of the rug, next to Sherlock, who handed her the blanket. She draped it evenly over her shoulders, so there would be room for both Sherlock and Dad to join her beneath it. Dad carried the hot chocolate and biscuits over and set them down in front of her, and they all sat by the fire together until they had warmed up from being out in the snow.


	4. Deck the Halls

"Oh, that's a lovely little holiday cheer, isn't it, John?" Mrs. Hudson said as John followed her into the house, carrying the results of her afternoon of Christmas shopping. 

"What's that?" He shifted the bags in his arms so he could close the door behind him, then turned to see that she was admiring a stack of neatly-wrapped gift boxes piled next to a small tree on the table in the hallway outside her flat. "Oh, looks like Sherlock and Rosie were decorating while we were out." It had become a tradition, started when Rosie was a toddler, and it seemed each year she and Sherlock got more elaborate in their efforts.

Mrs. Hudson lifted one of the boxes and shook it. "I think they just wrapped up empty boxes."

"Probably. I can send them down to help you with everything you bought today, if they like wrapping so much."

"That would be lovely. Send them separately, and they can wrap each other's gifts." 

John dropped all her purchases off in her flat and headed upstairs, thinking about how much he needed to sit down, put his feet up and have a nice cup of tea after spending four hours out in the shops. He knew to brace himself as he opened the door to the flat, but for once his imagination had created a bigger mess than Rosie and Sherlock had. They had decorated, but the empty boxes had already been moved out of sight, presumably down into the storage in 221A. There were more lights strung around the living room than there had been last year, and the mirror over the fireplace was covered in snowflakes that Rosie had made in school. The overall effect was a that of a cozy, family-oriented Christmas, and John thought it all looked very nice. 

Sherlock and Rosie both called out to greet him when he entered the flat, but neither got up from where they sat on the floor near the Christmas tree, which had been erected in its usual spot in front of the window behind Sherlock's chair. They had a half-dozen tubes of gift wrap spread out around them and seemed to be in the middle of—oh, that was what had happened to the empty ornament boxes. They were wrapping them to use in their decorative displays. Clever, but then John expected no less from them.

"You two have been busy, haven't you? Do you want a cuppa? Mrs. Hudson wore me out, and I need to sit and relax for a while."

"No, we had tea a little while ago. Kettle's probably still warmish," Sherlock said. "Did she buy everything on her list?"

"And then some."

"Good, then I won't have to take her out again next week while you're at work." Sherlock reached over to hold down a flap of wrapping paper while Rosie taped it into place, and John smiled and left them to their project. 

The kettle was still warm, but had less than a cup's worth of water, so John refilled it and opened the cabinet, only to find that their regular supply of tea cups and mugs had been replaced by a Christmas-themed set. He sighed. Sherlock's parents had given them the set a few years ago, but John much preferred to drink out of their regular cups. "Where are all the normal tea cups?" 

"Oh." Sherlock appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. "Sorry. We wrapped them."

"You wrapped them? I thought you were just wrapping empty boxes."

"No, we've wrapped some empty boxes, but others had things inside them. Don't worry, we didn't wrap anything you'll need between now and Christmas."

John grumbled but pulled a mug decorated with ice skating penguins out from the cabinet. He could manage for a few weeks, he supposed. 

When his tea was ready, he carried it out into the living room and collapsed into his chair with a groan of relief. Rosie was still working on wrapping something, though her back was to him so he couldn't see what it was. Sherlock began to pick up the stack of colorful boxes and arrange them beneath the tree.

"So those are all fake packages? Not real gifts?"

"Yes. We'll move them when it's time for the real thing."

"And you'll clean up all that paper when you're done unwrapping them, too." 

"Yes, yes." Sherlock looked at Rosie and they both sighed. 

John shook his head and took a sip of his tea, then picked up the newspaper he hadn't had time to read this morning and reached to grab his reading glasses from their spot on the table next to his chair. Except they weren't in their spot on the table next to his chair. "Have either of you seen my glasses?"

"Oh." Sherlock straightened up and turned towards John. "Erm. Rosie, do you know which basket they went in?"

Rosie stood up and rummaged around on the desk for a moment—it hadn't been decorated yet, or rather it had been covered in decorations because it was being used as a staging area for every Christmas trinket they hadn't set out yet. She lifted a green and red basket about the size of a dinner plate; John saw at least two more like it on the desk. Each was filled with a variety of small objects, all covered in bright and cheerful gift wrap. 

"What is that?" John asked, though he had a sinking feeling that he knew.

"Rosie invented a game," Sherlock said. He took the basket from her and peered into it, then pulled out an object covered in red and white striped paper. An object that was shaped suspiciously like a pair of eyeglasses. 

"A game?"

"We wrap things up, then on Christmas Eve we try to guess what they are before we open them," Rosie said, bouncing on her toes.

"But you took my glasses!" 

Sherlock handed the basket back to Rosie. He waved the wrapped glasses towards John. "These aren't your reading glasses—those are in the bedroom. These are your spare reading glasses."

"No, those are my reading glasses that I keep in the living room. For reading. In the living room. The ones in the bedroom are for when I'm reading in bed."

"You have another pair at work, don't you? You don't need three pairs of reading glasses, John."

"Yes, I do. I keep one in each place where I'm likely to need them so I don't end up moving them around and misplacing them." He grabbed the package away from Sherlock, tore the paper off and let it drop to the floor, then settled the glasses in place on his nose. Next year he was going to send Sherlock out shopping with Mrs. Hudson, and he would stay home and decorate the flat with Rosie.


	5. 5: Shepherd and 6: Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I combined two prompts for this ficlet both because I anticipate not having a lot of time to write this coming week and may have to skip a day, and also because I had an idea to use the next two prompts: Shepherd (um, that's Rosie) and Joy (Sherlock, for a moment, at least).
> 
> With this installment we go back in time again to the same year as chapter 1, when Rosie is around 3 years old.

Sometimes Sherlock was the one who read Rosie her bedtime stories and put her to bed at night, and sometimes it was John. They almost never did it together, but tonight, after John had given her a bath and gone upstairs with her, Sherlock had a sudden breakthrough on the case he'd been working on. He texted Lestrade and then ran up the stairs, eager to tell John about how clever the killer had been in hiding his crimes. 

John had already finished reading Rosie's book; he was now singing a song to her, softly enough that Sherlock could barely make out the tune. He stopped in the doorway, unwilling to interrupt the moment, but when he had finished singing, John turned and beckoned him into the room. "Rosie doesn't want you to miss your goodnight kiss."

"And I wouldn't want to miss my goodnight kiss from such a wonderful little girl." Solving the case had put him into an ebullient mood. He crossed the room, making a mental note to tell John about the case later tonight instead. 

John stood up from the bed to allow Sherlock access, and Rosie sat up, threw her arms around Sherlock's neck, and smacked him on the cheek with her lips. He kissed her nose delicately in return and then stepped back from the bed. 

"Now you, Daddy!" Rosie stretched her arms towards John, who obliged with a series of three kisses. 

"Hugs!" Rosie declared, and John wrapped his arms around her for a moment, and planted another kiss on top of her head.

"Now Sherlock hug!"

"I think someone is trying to delay her bedtime," John said, but stepped out of the way again to let Sherlock give her a hug.

She did try to prolong it, but eventually Sherlock pried himself out of her arms and straightened up. "Now that you've had extra hugs and kisses tonight, you'll have to sleep twice as long."

The joke was a bit over her head, but Rosie ignored it anyway. "Now your turn! You hug Daddy!"

Sherlock's smile slipped. Not a usual part of the bedtime routine, by far. He and John had certainly hugged one another on a number of occasions, but only in times of emotional extremes. It definitely wasn't a casual, everyday occurrence. He glanced sideways to gauge John's reaction.

John's eyebrows went up, questioning, as if Sherlock were the one who might object to Rosie's demand. 

Sherlock turned to face him, spreading his arms. He wasn't going to pass up an opportunity to put his arms around John, even if it wasn't in the context he would prefer. 

John stepped towards him and they embraced; John was warm and solid and entirely too enticing in his arms. Sherlock let himself linger perhaps longer than was wise, though in his defense he did feel the need to savor such a rare opportunity. But John didn't seem to be trying to pull away, either. He had his arms firmly wrapped around Sherlock's torso, his hands resting lightly on his back. The hug went on for several seconds, until Rosie called out, "Now kiss, too!"

Without thinking twice about it, Sherlock tipped his chin down. John tipped his head up at the same moment, and their lips pressed together. Had he been aiming for John's lips, or had it just happened? 

It was a brief kiss, chaste, of course, though far, far different from any kiss Sherlock had shared before, and not simply because it was with John. It was if a small spark of electricity passed between them, though there was no carpet in the room likely to have given them a shock. Kissing John was simply...electrifying.

Perhaps Sherlock shouldn't have been surprised. He'd known he loved John; he'd known he was attracted to him, as well. He had not known how desperately he wanted to kiss him. How could he have? He'd never known kisses could feel like that. Weren't they simply something done for show, to signal that you were interested in another person? And yet that simple press of lips they had just shared, while a far cry from an intimate kiss of lovers, had made every nerve in Sherlock's body leap in joy. 

As they pulled away from each other, John made a small sound, almost a hum, as if he'd just read something of interest in the morning paper. Sherlock scanned his face quickly, knowing it was a risk to stare but unable to help himself. The sound John had made had been pleased, without a doubt. Yet now his eyes were cast down, not looking at Sherlock, and he turned his body away quickly, bending forward to pull the blanket on Rosie's bed up, encouraging her to lie down. His voice sounded different, too, gruffer than it had been a few moments earlier. What did it all mean? John hadn't objected to the kiss, had moved automatically to offer it, had made a sound of enjoyment, and yet now did not want to acknowledge it. 

Of course. Not hard to interpret at all, really. John didn't want to admit, perhaps even to himself, that he had enjoyed kissing a man. Sherlock had long suspected that John might be bisexual but in denial about it, and now here was another bit of evidence to support that theory. 

He stepped away from the bed, leaving John to finish tucking Rosie in for the night. 

"Night, Daddy!" Rosie trilled. "Night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, my sweet little rose," Sherlock said, watching as John turned away from the bed. Yes, he was clearly embarrassed and regretted the kiss. Why else would he walk so quickly past Sherlock, headed towards the stairs?

Sherlock lingered for a moment longer, giving John time to get downstairs without him. When he finally judged it safe to follow, he couldn't stop himself from glancing into John's bedroom as he passed it by on his way to the staircase. They'd separated the space up here over a year ago, when Rosie had moved from a cot to a regular bed. At the time, Sherlock had entertained an elaborate fantasy of confessing that his feelings for John went far beyond friendship and suggesting that John did not need to continue to sleep alone upstairs. He could sense that fantasy trying to make a resurgence now, prompted of course by that brief, brilliant kiss, but he squashed it down. There was no sense in having a dream that couldn't come true.


	6. Blankets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized this prompt started with a "b" so obviously I had to write a 221B. (Except first draft came in at 435 words! Luckily I love editing.)

Rosie loved Gran and Grandad's house, but after three days here it was a lot less fun.

At bedtime, Grandad read her a story, even though she knew how to read now. When he finished, Gran came in and sat on the bed. 

Rosie looked at them both and started to cry. 

"Oh, sweetheart." Gran was soft when she hugged. "Only two more days and you'll be back home."

"Why did Daddy and Sherlock have to go without me?"

"They just wanted a special holiday together to celebrate getting married."

"Why did they have to get married?"

Gran let go of her a little and looked at Grandad, who smiled and said, "They want everyone to know exactly how much they love each other."

"Everyone knows that already." Rosie sniffed and blew her nose on the tissue Gran gave her. 

"True. But I also know they love and miss you, too. We'll call them in the morning if you'd like."

"Yes, please." Rosie handed him the used tissue. She felt a little better now, and was glad Gran and Grandad's bedroom was right next door if she needed them during the night. 

They both gave her a hug and kiss and said goodnight. She still felt cozy from their hugs when she closed her eyes and snuggled deep under her blankets.


	7. O Christmas Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another very smutty one, so skip this chapter if you're trying to avoid that! :) 🎄
> 
> Apologies if there are any typos. This one got long which makes it harder for me to find the mistakes.

John stepped out of the bathroom wearing one of the hotel's plush dressing gowns to discover Sherlock standing in the bedroom, naked and grinning.

"Oh, hello," John said, grinning back at him. He couldn't say he was surprised to find Sherlock naked, given that they were on their honeymoon—he would not call it a sex holiday no matter what Sherlock said—but when he'd gone in to have a shower, Sherlock hadn't even been in the suite. 

"I discovered something." Sherlock clapped his hands together and John would have bet money that he was going to say he'd uncovered a murder in the hotel, except Sherlock tended not to get naked for cases that involved other people. He would have at least worn a sheet.

"It's not a murder," Sherlock added. "I discovered that this resort has more than one gift shop."

"O-kay." John put his hands into the warm, soft pockets of the dressing gown and tipped his head, waiting for an explanation.

"One of the shops has, hidden way in the back, a small display of adult-themed merchandise."

John raised his eyebrows and felt his grin spread wider. The dressing gown he was wearing was exceedingly comfortable, but he had a feeling he wouldn't be wearing it for much longer.

Sherlock turned away from him and crossed over to the bed, which was so ridiculously large that John would've felt like a child in it, except that every time he'd been in it so far, he'd had incredible, mind-blowing sex. Now he squirmed in anticipation and followed Sherlock across the room.

"Most of the items they had for sale were Christmas-themed, unfortunately," Sherlock said. "Not something I took into account when choosing our wedding date, but live and learn, I suppose. They had a large variety of peppermint-flavored accessories, but since that one mint lubricant we tried last year burned like hell itself, I didn't want to risk any of those. And I didn't imagine either of us would be aroused by dressing in skimpy Santa outfits. But I did find this." He reached into a discreet paper bag and withdrew—

"Is that a Christmas tree-shaped dildo?"

"What else would it be?" Sherlock passed it back and forth between his hands; it was bright green, perhaps eight inches long and thicker around than the average man, though not as large as some of the other toys they had tried on each other over the past few years. "They also had a set of smaller anal plugs decorated with snowflakes, but this seemed...."

"Yes, you made the right choice." John was about to wiggle right out of his dressing gown. "Lube's in the suitcase. We finished the other tube last night."

"I know." Sherlock stepped over to the luggage rack and rummaged in the suitcase until he found the new tube. "You do realize that I plan to use this on myself first, right?"

"That's fine," John said. Everything was fine. They'd been in a physical relationship for nearly three years now, but during the past few days at this hotel, they'd managed to find new levels of pleasure John hadn't even known were possible. "As long as I get to watch your face while you do it."

"Indeed." Sherlock dropped the lube and the tree on the bed near the pillows, put one hand on his own cock and reached behind himself with the other. His eyes rolled slightly as he stroked himself front and back. 

"Oh, God." John stripped off the dressing gown and let it fall to the floor. He had on boxer shorts, for some reason—they were silky and sensual but he had no idea why he thought he'd spend any time wearing them.

Sherlock let go of himself long enough to shove the covers on the bed down. The poor hotel staff. John would leave them an additional gratuity, if he still had enough brain cells left to remember to do that by the time they were done with this holiday. This sex holiday. 

"You can use it, but can I see it for a second, first?" John lunged past him and grabbed the dildo before Sherlock could reply. Good quality silicone, a base wide enough to be safe, a star on top that seemed unlikely to break off easily. Safe to use, and the branches flared out just the right amount, in John's experienced opinion. Also, it was completely washable, which meant he was going to get to use it next time.

Sherlock sat down on the bed. "Is it doctor-approved?" 

"Yes."

"Good." Sherlock held out his hand and John passed it to him, then leaned over and kissed him, a deep, hard kiss that skipped over any pretense of foreplay and went straight to desperate arousal. 

"Stop." Sherlock pulled back and then scrambled up onto the bed, dragging the dildo with him. "I don't need you making me come before I even get a chance to try this out."

"Sorry, sorry." John panted. He wasn't sorry in the least. He shucked off his pants and climbed onto the bed after Sherlock; he had to crawl several feet to reach the middle of the huge mattress.

Sherlock took a few seconds to position himself, on his knees just below the pillows. He cracked the seal on the lubricant and smeared it over the fingers of his left hand and reached behind himself again, head tipping back and eyes closing.

John watched. Half the appeal of sex with Sherlock was watching him, though John was never able to wait long before joining in. Now he sat on the bed in front of him, stroking himself erect while Sherlock fingered himself open.

After a few seconds, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at John. "Okay, here goes," he said, and covered the tree in a thick coating of lubricant. 

John moaned, even though Sherlock was the one who slowly settled himself down until he was sitting, knees bent, arse resting on his feet, dildo inside him as far as it was designed to go. "How is it?" John asked, his voice sounding low and hoarse to his own ears.

"Excellent," Sherlock replied, and moved his hips in a small circle. His face. Oh God, his face when he was in the midst of pleasure. If all John could ever do was stare at Sherlock's face as he got himself off, he could be content.

Fortunately, John was able to do much more than that. He leaned forward and began to stroke Sherlock's cock, until it was hard and leaking, just as his own was. "Sherlock," he whispered.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, and seemed to know what John wanted. "If I can sit still like this and you do most of the moving, you can sit on me now. I'll come inside you."

"Oh, God, yes." John threw himself forward, into Sherlock's arms. Sherlock caught him and moved his head to one side, sucking John's right ear halfway into his mouth, teeth just barely catching on the lobe. John gasped and whimpered and Sherlock let go of his ear.

"Lube." He reached blindly for the tube and Sherlock shoved it into his hands. John squeezed it out onto him, spreading it up and down before he positioned himself over his cock. Slowly, slowly, he eased himself over the head, pausing to sort out the rest of his body until his arms and legs were wrapped around Sherlock's back. He let himself sink the rest of the way down, the sounds coming from Sherlock as he moved almost as satisfying as feeling his cock inside him. "Oh, Sherlock. I'm—"

"You better be about to say you're not going to last long because that's exactly what I was about to say to you." Sherlock closed his mouth and leaned his head against John's shoulder, rocking very slightly up and down on the dildo. 

"Touch me," John told him, and Sherlock did, stroking with long, firm movements up and down John's cock as John thrust on top of him. John didn't care about the Christmas tree dildo. Sherlock could be the one to use it next time, too. All John needed was Sherlock himself, filling him up and drawing him out, his body as agile and clever in bed as it was with everything else he ever did.

"Mmmm." John tipped his head up, arching his back, as his thoughts and words fragmented. All he wanted. All he had. Everything. Everything now. Now. His arms and legs clenched tighter around Sherlock's body, trapping Sherlock's hand between them as John's climax overtook him.

"John!" Sherlock cried out, and his whole body twitched and shuddered, cock driving deeper as John's arse spasmed around it. 

They held each other until they both were able to move again, giggling and groaning as they pulled themselves apart. John had an easier time of it; Sherlock winced and hissed as he pulled out the dildo and then tried to straighten his legs. 

"You're heavy," he told John.

"I'm really not," John replied, though he understood, because his own muscles were protesting and his arms and legs hadn't even been bearing any weight. "Did you find the hotel's spa, when you took your walk around the resort looking for sex toys?"

"Yes, and we're eligible for the newlywed special. I booked us for this afternoon."

"Lovely," John said, and rolled over to sitting, leaving a sticky trail as he moved across the bed. "I'll just need another shower before then."

"Me, too." Sherlock said. "I ordered lunch to be delivered at one. That should give us time to get cleaned up and dressed, I think."

"Probably," John agreed, and turned again to look Sherlock. His husband. "Do you think maybe before Saturday we should try to leave the hotel, just so we'll have at least one thing to say when people ask us what we did while we were here?"

"No," Sherlock said, and spread his arms wide, motioning for John to lie against him. "This is all I want to do, always, for the rest of our lives."


	8. Making a List

It had been three days and three hours since Sherlock and John had kissed, that tiny peck of the lips at Rosie's command. Since then, Sherlock had spent fifteen hours sleeping (fourteen hours over three nights, plus an hourlong kip this afternoon while Rosie watched _Frozen_ for the tenth time this month). The sixty hours that he had been awake, he had spent thinking about the kiss. What it felt like, what it meant, how it would feel to do it again. He would open his lips next time, just a bit, and press his mouth more firmly against John's. He would be insistent, make it clear what he wanted.... No, he wouldn't. He would never try again. Right now, John was upstairs, no doubt sound asleep in his bed, while Sherlock was down here alone, curled on the sofa, agonizing over how he was possibly supposed to proceed with his life.

A few hours ago, Sherlock had been reading Rosie a picture book—they'd been downstairs this time, sitting in the chairs by the fireplace. Rosie had been on his lap, with John in his usual spot across from them. Every time Sherlock had glanced up, John had been staring at them. At him. At his lips, Sherlock was certain. He'd never done that before. Usually if Sherlock was looking after Rosie, John would take advantage of the chance to do something else—clean the kitchen or run a load of laundry or answer comments on his blog. But tonight he'd just sat and stared while Sherlock read. And it wasn't the first time Sherlock had caught him looking—he'd noticed nineteen distinct instances of such behavior since Sunday, the day after they had kissed. Which meant John must still be thinking about the kiss, too. And not in a negative light, or he would have avoided looking at him. Right? 

There was no way to know. Sherlock's Mind Palace was useless in this case—he had too little experience in kissing for its own sake, rather than as a tool used to gain something else. He needed more data, but he wasn't brave enough to try kissing John again. He needed...advice? To whom could he turn for advice in such a matter?

He rolled over onto his back and squeezed his eyes shut. Unbidden, a list of people he might be able to ask for advice began to write itself in his head:

~~John~~ —much too risky to ask him directly  
 ~~Rosie~~ —too young. Also, unsure if I'm pleased or upset with her first effort at matchmaking  
 ~~Mary~~ —dead and did not leave a DVD to address this matter, alas  
 ~~Mrs. Hudson~~ —would squeal to John (literally) the moment she caught a whisper of what I have been thinking about  
 ~~Molly~~ —in love with me, probably not a good choice  
 ~~Lestrade~~ —track record at relationships worse than that of solving murders  
 ~~Anderson~~ —too prone to conspiracy theories to be useful in this context  
 ~~Wiggins~~ —John suspicious of him and other Homeless Network members and would react poorly if he discovered their involvement  
 ~~Janine~~ —may try to exact more revenge for fake engagement  
 ~~Mycroft~~ —worse than me at this sort of thing  
 ~~Mummy and Daddy~~ —I would die  
 ~~Eurus~~ —um, no  
The Woman—perhaps? Would require breaking no texting rule, but may be worth it for this

Sherlock sighed and stretched his arms and legs, pushing against the arm of the sofa with his feet. He would wait a little longer to see if he could solve this problem on his own, but if no solution presented itself soon, he would have to find the courage to send an unsolicited text and hope for the best.


	9. Candle

The box of Christmas ornaments she was bringing to her new flat was almost full, but there was one more thing Rosie wanted. She picked up the Advent wreath, dusty and neglected, its plastic needles shedding. The four candles had never been lit, but were nicked and misshapen after two decades of being displayed every winter and then shoved into a cupboard for the rest of the year.

She raised her eyebrows at Dad, and he looked at her and nodded. "Of course, if you want it."

"I do." The wreath had been around since she was a kid. Since before she was born. She knew the story—Mum had bought it the first Christmas she and Dad were married, about a month before Rosie was born. She'd put it out on the table in their house that year, but never got around to lighting the candles. Dad had packed it up and brought it with him when he moved back to Baker Street a couple of years later, when Rosie was little. 

"You always did like that, when you were a kid," Dad said, now. "Even when it got faded and kind of sad-looking." 

Rosie smiled. "Yeah, I don't know why. I just liked it." She did know why; it was because when she was around five or six, she'd asked Sherlock why the candles were pink and purple instead of all red like most of the wreaths she saw at Christmastime were. Sherlock had looked it up on his phone and said the pink and purple were more common in other countries. Then he kept reading to her, about how there was one candle for each week of Advent, and that each one had a special meaning in the church. It was too much for her to remember it all back then, but Sherlock had said the color of the pink candle was actually called rose, so she didn't forget that, because that was her candle. And the fourth purple candle symbolized Mary—she wouldn't forget that, either, because Jesus wasn't the only one whose mother was called Mary. In her head, young Rosie had decided that the other two candles stood for Dad and Sherlock, and the wreath was her whole family. And it was okay that they never lit any of the candles, because that way she got to keep all of them together, even if she'd never met her mum.

But she certainly wasn't going to tell Dad any of that now. He might not scoff at the sentiment like Sherlock would, but it would be embarrassing to admit how her childish thinking about the candles in the wreath still felt meaningful to her. So she just took the wreath and slipped it into a zippered plastic bag to keep it from losing any more needles, then put it on top in the box that she was going to take with her when she moved out in a few weeks. She was ready to face the whole world on her own, but bringing a few reminders of her old life wouldn't hurt.


	10. Dashing Through the Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He probably won't read it but this chapter is for [RobinMistySaddle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinMistySaddle/pseuds/RobinMistySaddle), because I didn't use his suggestion for "Making a List," which was "Types of frogs that can be eaten." 
> 
> I was trying to avoid setting any ficlets during this year, but here we are.
> 
> A 221B ficlet.

_December 2020_

Snow fell as John walked from the car park to Baker Street after work. He planned to spend the weekend at home with Sherlock and Rosie, not a mask or pair of gloves in sight.

As he reached 221, the door opened and Sherlock stepped outside. "John! Just in time. Give me the keys to the car so I don't need to take a cab."

"Where are you going? Have you got a case?"

“No, I’ve got a lead!”

"Wha—?" John didn't finish his question because Sherlock leaned over, kissed his cheek, then grabbed the keys from his pocket.

"An officer at the Yard has a sister whose friend bought an extra one last month and is willing to sell it for a relatively reasonable price."

"An extra what now?"

"John, pay attention. The animatronic Grogu that Rosie wants for Christmas."

"What?"

"The Child, John. The Child."

John narrowed his eyes.

Sherlock sighed. "Baby Yoda. They're sold out everywhere."

"Oh! Baby Yoda. Right. Good. Rosie does want that."

"Mrs. Hudson is watching her—don't say anything to either of them." 

"Okay, but be careful. Don't get mugged or anything. Do you have a mask with you?"

"Yes, yes. Don't worry. We're meeting outside Scotland Yard." Sherlock kissed him again and then dashed off to buy Rosie a little Yoda baby.


	11. Visiting

"Why are you afraid of what you're feeling?"

Sherlock's bow stuttered across the strings and he lowered his violin, blinking at Eurus in surprise. She rarely spoke during his visits, and never interrupted their playing to do so. And yet here she was, her own instrument hanging forgotten from one hand as she stepped closer to the glass to continue speaking to him.

"You already know that he loves you. He's told you."

"I—John?"

Eurus laughed. "Of course, John. Who else would be written all over your face as you played?"

"I—" Sherlock began again, and then stopped himself. He knew better. He knew better than to talk to her. And yet. "He loves me, but not the way I love him."

"How do you know?"

"I—know. I just know."

"Do you?" Eurus placed her violin on the floor of her cell and put both hands on the glass, reaching towards him. The glass stayed firmly in place between them. "Something has changed, hasn't it? It's changed for you, and you've seen it in him, but you're still afraid to act on it."

Sherlock was silent for the space of three heartbeats, watching her, thinking. "What if I'm wrong?"

"You're not." Eurus smiled. "You can't trust me, I know. That's okay. But don't be afraid to trust yourself, brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 221B as I attempt to catch up on the prompts. But today I finished my final chapter of [that *other* parentlock friends to lovers fic featuring Eurus](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252971) and sent it off to my betas, woo!


	12. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuing from yesterday's "Visiting" ficlet...

Mycroft wasn't paying much attention to the video coming out of Sherrinford. His parents were viewing it, of course, from the comfort of their living room, but Mycroft was at work and didn't actually care about Sherlock and Eurus's little musical bonding sessions, as long as Eurus was secure in her cell. He was only watching because he planned to be too busy to visit Mummy and Daddy for Christmas and Mummy would be less angry with him if he pointed out that he had just seen them a few weeks earlier, albeit virtually.

He had the sound turned low, but he could still hear it when Eurus's violin stopped abruptly, and a moment later Sherlock's playing screeched to a halt, as well. He looked up from the file he was reviewing, frowning at the camera feed. On his second monitor, Mummy and Daddy were leaning forward on their sofa, their hands clasped together. What had Mycroft missed?

He turned the sound up and listened to the rest of the short conversation between Sherlock and Eurus, then, when they both resumed playing a few moments later, went back through the recording and watched from the beginning. What nonsense was Eurus spouting, and why on earth was Sherlock listening to her?

Neither of his siblings knew they were being watched, at least not beyond the usual cameras that monitored all the cells at Sherrinford. He'd been letting Mummy and Daddy watch Sherlock's visits with Eurus for almost two years now, and nothing bad had ever come of it.

Until now. Mycroft personally thought nothing of what Eurus was saying—she was trying to get under Sherlock's skin, obviously. Unfortunately, Mummy and Daddy did not share that opinion.

"Mycroft, if it's true, and John really is in love with Sherlock, we have to do something about it," Mummy said.

"Do something?" Mycroft frowned at the screen that showed his parents. "What do you propose we do? Other than attempting to stop Eurus from playing games with Sherlock's head, but I know you don't like it when she's too heavily medicated to speak."

"Mycroft!" Mummy exclaimed.

Mycroft winced at the reprimand, hating how he still couldn't control his reactions when she used a certain tone of voice. "There's nothing we can do, Mummy."

"Nonsense! Sherlock is in love with John—we all know that. We've known it for ages. But if Eurus is right, then it's our responsibility to help Sherlock realize that John feels the same way about him, so they can finally be happy together."

"Maybe we should stay out of it," Daddy suggested. "It's Sherlock's business, not ours, after all."

Unfortunately, no one, not even Daddy, had ever been able to make Mummy change her mind once she had decided on a path. "No. I will see at least one of my children happy! Mycroft, you know John better than we do. Is Eurus right? Could he be in love with Sherlock?"

"He was married to Mary, and she was a woman," Daddy pointed out. 

Mummy poked Daddy in the ribs with one finger. "Bisexual," she said.

"Oh, right!" Daddy's eyes widened, and Mycroft could feel his own IQ dropping. "Yes, then, maybe it is true. Oh, wouldn't it be wonderful, if he and Sherlock could be happy together?"

Mycroft sighed. No, it would not be wonderful. Sherlock and John being together any more than they already were would likely make his life a living hell, just on sheer principle. 

"We'll need to come up with a plan," Mummy said. "I'll invite them both to stay with us for Christmas, of course, and the three of us will make sure they end up confessing their love before the holidays are over. Mycroft, make sure you clear your schedule so you can spend at least Christmas Eve through Boxing Day with us. Oh, this is so exciting!"


	13. Hope

John hated it every time that Sherlock went to Sherrinford.

Once a month, Sherlock packed up his violin and went to visit his sister, and John stayed home with Rosie and waited, convinced that Sherlock would not return. Eurus would escape from her cell and strangle him before the guards could react, or the helicopter carrying him to the island would crash on the rocks, or.... Sometimes John thought it would be better if he went with him, to protect him, but then he looked at Rosie and knew he couldn't risk leaving her, knowing he might not come back.

Today, Sherlock had been gone for nearly six hours—was this the day when he wouldn't return? John tried to tell himself he was overreacting, but couldn't escape the escalating thoughts of disaster as he fed Rosie dinner and got her ready for bed. Would he and Rosie stay at Baker Street if Sherlock died at Sherrinford? He swallowed and told himself he was being ridiculous—of course they would stay here. No, that was wrong—of course Sherlock wasn't going to die at Sherrinford. He would be home soon. John didn't try to text or call him. There was no reception on the island and he couldn't deal with the ambiguity of not receiving a reply.

Once Rosie was in bed, he made himself do the washing up and then have a shower, in an attempt to distract himself from worrying. Sherlock would be home soon. He had to be.

When he shut off the water after his shower, he heard the sound of someone moving in the room next door. Thank God. He rubbed a towel quickly over his hair and threw on his dressing gown, then pulled open the door that led into Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock turned around, surprise clear on his face. "John. Hello. Is everything okay?" His eyes crinkled in concern and John felt both foolish for having been afraid and so relieved he thought he might cry.

He tugged the ties of his dressing gown tighter and tried to keep his voice nonchalant. "You're late. I was worried." 

He apparently did a poor job of disguising his level of concern, because Sherlock took two steps towards him and then wrapped him in a full-body hug.

John let himself fall into his arms, aware that he was wearing nothing beneath his dressing gown but not caring at the moment. The thoughts he'd been having about life without Sherlock vanished as they held each other. John wriggled closer, remembering the brief hug they had shared the other day at Rosie's insistence. And the kiss. The kiss, that he hadn't stopped thinking about even though it had been nothing more than a chaste touching of lips, prompted by a child. He swallowed and tried not to think about that, focusing instead on the feeling of Sherlock in his arms now. "You're cold." 

"I was outside," Sherlock replied. "You're warm. And wet."

"I was just in the shower."

"I see that." Sherlock chuckled, the sound resonating through John's whole body. "Is Rosie in bed already?"

"Yes." John expected that Sherlock would let go of him soon, but he didn't, and John himself wasn't about to pass up this chance to be in his arms for as long as Sherlock was willing. 

"Good. That's...good." Sherlock tightened his arms around him and John hugged him back, burying his face against the top of Sherlock's shoulder, trying to memorize every inch of his body in case he never got the opportunity to do this again. 

"I'm glad you're home," he said.

"Glad to be home," Sherlock said, and pressed his lips to John's forehead. "Now go dry off before you leave water stains on my floor." He dropped his arms from around John's body and stepped back, turning away from John as he moved.

John stood where he was for a moment, trying to understand what had just happened. He'd been worried about Sherlock, but then Sherlock had been the one who had hugged him. And kissed him. He'd kissed him, for the second time in a week, and without Rosie there to demand it. Why? He'd assumed that Sherlock hadn't thought twice about what had happened at Rosie's bedtime the other night, but what if he was wrong? What if Sherlock had been thinking about it, too? "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" Sherlock didn't turn around—he was arranging his wallet and keys in their spot on top of his chest of drawers. By the sound of his voice—calm, even, casual—his thoughts, unlike John's, were not spiraling out of control as he tried to understand what was going on.

"Glad you're home," John repeated, and turned around and went back into the bathroom to finish getting dressed.


	14. Twinkling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm rearranging the order of a few of the prompts to better suit my purposes and taking a slight pause in the friend to lovers storyline to jump ahead to the following year for this one.

The string of fairy lights that was supposed to be on the tree had twinkled for approximately thirty seconds and then gone out completely. Grumbling, Sherlock looped the long cord around his arm and carried them over to the sofa. "One of the bulbs must be loose." He started to wiggle each tiny bulb in its socket, making sure they were seated firmly. 

"I wanna help," Rosie said, and grabbed the other end of the string.

"This is a grown-up job," Sherlock told her. "Why don't you get the snowflake ornaments Granny Hudson gave you and find the best spots to hang them on the tree?"

"I wanna do a grown-up job," Rosie whined, but she wandered away from Sherlock, towards the half-decorated tree, and picked up one of the crocheted snowflakes that Mrs. Hudson had purchased from her niece's Etsy shop.

Sherlock went back to trying to locate the defective light bulb. He glanced up a few moments later in time to see Rosie standing on her tiptoes, stretching not to hang a snowflake, but to grab one of the glass baubles that he had placed high up on the tree. "Careful," he warned. "Don't—" 

Too late. Rosie over-balanced and fell headfirst into the tree. The tree teetered for a moment before tipping backwards, falling until it came to rest against the window. A half-dozen of the glass baubles hit the floor and Sherlock heard at least one of them shatter. He dropped the string of lights and lunged across the room towards Rosie.

"You're okay," he told her, forcing his tone to stay cheerful as he plucked her from amidst the tree's metal and plastic branches. Their pliability made for a softer landing than a real tree, at least. 

Rosie didn't start crying until he set her back on her feet, well away from the fallen tree, and then she burst into full-blown tears. 

"Show me what hurts." He dropped to his knees in front of her, inspecting her hands and face, then gently touching each of her limbs, but she had no visible cuts and hadn't fallen hard enough to cause any significant injury. "You're okay," he said again, and hugged her to his chest. "I know, it was scary, wasn't it? But nothing's broken except for those two very ugly yellow baubles that I never liked in the first place." He leaned back and looked her in the eye. "Thank you for breaking them for me."

A small laugh made its way through Rosie's tears, and Sherlock used his thumb to swipe away the wetness beneath her eyes. "Would some hot chocolate make you feel better?"

"Mm-hmm." She sniffed and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jumper.

"Okay, into the kitchen we go." He stood up, then stopped when he saw that John had emerged from the kitchen to see what had happened. "She's fine," Sherlock told him. "No need to worry."

"I know," John said, and fluffed Rosie's hair as she ran past him. But he didn't move from where he stood near his armchair, and he didn't stop staring at Sherlock. 

Sherlock wrinkled his brow at him, silently asking if there was something else wrong. 

John shook his head. "Just watching you."

"Why?"

"You're so good with her. Come here." John took two long strides across the room and pulled Sherlock into his arms. 

The unexpected embrace reminded Sherlock of last December. This year was so much better—he no longer had to worry about what John might really feel for him, and they could kiss and hug each other whenever they wanted. He tipped his head down to find John's lips, and they kissed until Rosie came back out of the kitchen to demand the hot chocolate she had been promised.


	15. Let Nothing You Dismay

To say Sherlock was even more confused than he had been a few days ago would be an understatement. When he'd returned from Sherrinford, John's concern for him had been clear. He'd welcomed Sherlock's hug, but then Sherlock had kissed him—just on the forehead, he wasn't bold enough to try anything more—and John hadn't tried to kiss him back. He'd just left Sherlock's room with barely another word. So the kiss hadn't been welcome. Right? 

Or maybe John hadn't known how to react because he was just as confused as Sherlock. But John had been in plenty of relationships—he should know what to do. Which meant that the fact that he hadn't tried to kiss Sherlock back indicated that he really wasn't interested. Unless.... Sherlock's thoughts looped around and around, never reaching a conclusion. This was impossible. How did anyone ever manage to embark on a romantic relationship if this was what it was like? 

Eurus had told him to trust himself, but Eurus herself had almost no understanding of the emotions involved in functional human relationships. Not that Sherlock was much better at it himself. Maybe it really was time to ask an expert for advice.

He picked up his phone and scrolled to the correct number. The Woman would know what to do. Having to go to her for help was mortifying, of course, but knowing he would probably never again see her face-to-face made it easier. He scowled at his phone, but made himself type out a series of messages, pausing after each as he debated how much he wanted to reveal.

_\--I need your help  
\--With John.  
\--I want  
\--Him. -SH_

The response came almost immediately: _Oh Sherlock. I'll see what I can do._

He'd expected more of an exchange, but she didn't send another text, and now that he'd admitted his desire, he was too embarrassed to pursue the matter any further. He went to bed, instead, and curled up with his phone next to him, feeling even more confused than he had been before.


	16. Jolly

"Santa laugh!" Rosie shouted. "Again!"

Sherlock set her down on the path that ran through the park and took a moment to catch his breath. She was small, for an almost-three-year-old, but after a dozen or more swoops up into the air, she was starting to feel heavy. "Okay, okay. One more time," he said, and glanced over his shoulder. There were plenty of other people out in the park, families with children and couples walking their dogs, but no one was paying attention to him and Rosie at all. The Santa hat and puffy red coat he was wearing definitely worked as a disguise, and Rosie found the idea of him as Santa Claus hilarious. He should have thought of wearing an outfit like this out in public long ago.

He picked her up by the waist, hoisting her up to his chest, then took a deep breath and bellowed, "Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!" as he tossed her a foot or two up into the air and caught her on her way back down.

Rosie burst into giggles and Sherlock hugged her to his chest, laughing and spinning in a circle, marveling that something so simple could make her so happy. 

"Okay, that's enough. We have to go home now or Daddy will be wondering where we are." He turned with her in his arms until they were facing the right direction on the path. He'd taken only a few steps towards home when behind him, a woman's voice spoke. 

"Sherlock Holmes is Father Christmas. I never would have guessed."

Sherlock froze, but before he could think what to do, the owner of that voice dashed up beside him, grinning above the scarf she had tucked over her chin against the cold. "Hi, Sherlock," she cooed.

"Janine." He gave her a tight smile and checked to make sure no one nearby had heard her say his name.

"I almost didn't recognize you, the way you're dressed. But then I heard your voice. Not the 'ho, ho, ho' part, just your regular voice—that's unmistakable." She was grinning at him, but Sherlock was horrified.

"Janine, listen. What you just saw. You can't—" He loved Rosie but having the media covering him playing in the park with her was, well, not his worst nightmare, but a fairly bad one.

She waved a hand. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe with me. Well, unless I need to get revenge on you again." She laughed, but Sherlock could see that she didn't have any ill intent behind her words, which was something of a relief, at least. "So, this must John and Mary's little one?"

"Yes." Sherlock tried to set Rosie down on the ground, but she clung to him, hiding her face against his shoulder. "Rosie. She's a bit shy around new people."

"Understandable," Janine said. "She's a little beauty, though. And a lucky girl, if she gets to spend time in your arms."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her and Janine laughed again, pushing her scarf down so she could speak more freely.

"So, Sherlock. You and John are...raising Rosie together?"

"Yes. Obviously." He shifted Rosie onto his hip, not trying to force her to interact with Janine if she didn't want to. 

"Okay." Janine's smile widened. "I mean, good for you! I'm surprised it took you this long, honestly."

Sherlock wrinkled his brow, unsure of what she meant. How long did she think it took to raise a child?

"Well, I won't keep you two lovelies. I'm headed to lunch with a blind date but I didn't want to be early so I took a walk through the park—glad I bumped into you!"

"Yes, it was...good to see you," Sherlock told her, which wasn't a lie, though he would have preferred to not be wearing the Santa hat. 

Janine turned and began to walk back the way she had come, calling over her shoulder as she left, "Tell John I said hello! And congratulations, to the two of you!"

Sherlock stood blinking as she walked away. Congratulations? To the two of them? Him and John? What did she mean by that? Did she think he and John were together? Why would she think that? He'd been trying to tamp down his feelings for John, since his desperate text to The Woman had produced no useful results. Why did Janine have to go and ruin—

"Sherlock, wake up!" Rosie smacked his face with one mitten-covered hand. 

He caught her hand in his, stilling it. "I'm not asleep. And we don't hit people, remember?" He let go of her hand and started walking towards home, doing his best to dismiss Janine and her nonsensical musings from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not expect the "getting together" storyline to be taking up so many of these prompts, and yet here we are. Apparently Sherlock or John will somehow encounter everyone mentioned on Sherlock's list??? You would think by now I would know how to plot/plan ahead of time instead of just making stuff up when I see that day's prompt, but no.


	17. Sweets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Changing the order of prompts again, jumping in time, and writing another quick 221B because I am trying to get the final chapter of [Hold You Like a Weapon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252971) posted this weekend. Then we'll be back to the friends-to-lovers drama of this ficlet series!

Mummy had been somewhat hesitant about agreeing to watch Rosie while Sherlock and John were on their honeymoon—it had been so long since she'd taken care of a child. But the past few days had been mostly delightful, and just when she'd feared that she and Daddy had run out of ways to amuse Rosie, Mycroft had shown up. 

Yes, Mycroft. He'd arrived this morning, gone directly upstairs into his old bedroom, and come back down carrying several cardboard boxes. 

"Trains!" Rosie abandoned the telly and spent the rest of the day helping Mycroft assemble his old train sets, arranging them not just around the tree but across the entire room. 

Mummy carried a bowl of sweets into the living room and set it down on the coffee table. "Oh, look at that. You found the old Lego sets, too. Are you done setting up the trains, then?" 

"We're going to build my house and your house, Gran! So the trains can go between them!"

"What a wonderful idea!"

"It was Uncle Mycroft's idea! He loves to build with Legos!"

"I know he does." Mummy chuckled. "Some things never change."

"Untrue." Mycroft raised an eyebrow and reached for a handful of jelly babies. "I no longer have to worry about everything I build being knocked down by my little brother."


	18. Faith

Sherlock didn't understand.

He had known John for the better part of fifteen years. They'd been together since Rosie was a toddler, and now she had almost reached double digits. In that time, Sherlock had learned a great deal about John. He knew and mostly concurred with his parenting philosophy, he respected his expertise in medicine as well several scientific disciplines in which Sherlock's own knowledge was lacking, and he trusted that John loved both him and Rosie unconditionally and without hesitation. But he did not understand why John believed in God. 

The belief didn't seem to factor into John's daily life. When they'd first met, he'd told Sherlock that after he'd been shot, he'd asked God to let him live. And he'd been married in a church, and had Rosie christened as an infant, of course. But he didn't make Rosie say grace before meals, hadn't taught her any prayers, and never took her to church, except at Christmas and Easter. When Sherlock pointed out that there was no reason to drag her to services even twice a year, John bristled and sent her off with Mrs. Hudson to buy a dress for Christmas Eve. 

Now Christmas Eve had come, and they were sitting together in a pew: John and Rosie, with Sherlock on the end. John had said that Sherlock didn't need to come. But he said that every year, and Sherlock always came. When Rosie had been young, he'd spent the time keeping her quiet and entertained. Now that she was older, she was less of a distraction, so he sang along with the carols and spent the rest of the service trying to make sense of John's belief.

Why would a doctor, an otherwise sensible man of science, believe in something so inexplicable—nonsensical, in Sherlock's view—when he knew that the entire world around him could be more rationally explained? Did he insist on going to church because he enjoyed the sense of community it offered? Doubtful—John didn't know anyone else here, and didn't interact with them any more than necessary. And that wouldn't explain the underlying belief in God that Sherlock knew he had.

It had been years, and Sherlock still hadn't figured out John's reasons. He wasn't inclined to ask, and he wasn't sure if John would be able to explain it to him, anyway. Maybe it didn't really matter. It was important to John, and so Sherlock would come and sit here with him and Rosie twice a year, even if he never managed to understand why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll be going back to that first year that John and Sherlock get together after this chapter. I needed some time to finish up [Hold You Like a Weapon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23252971), but now I can focus on these ficlets. Still hoping to finish by Christmas Eve!


	19. Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rushing a bit because I want to have these done before Christmas, and trying to tie the plot together, so I apologize if there are typos or mistakes in this one!

Mrs. Hudson had lived a life of far too much risk. Sherlock should have known better than to ask her for advice about John. But he hadn't heard anything more from The Woman, and he was desperate. Just not desperate enough to follow Mrs. Hudson's recommendation that he simply tell John what he felt. Instead, he put on his third best suit and called up to John that he was ready to go to the Christmas party.

They left Rosie with Mrs. Hudson and headed out to Scotland Yard. John had abandoned his Christmas jumpers this year in favor of a well-fitted blazer, and was carrying two bags for the gift exchange.

"Are they doing gag gifts this year?"

"No, real ones, with a twenty-five-pound limit."

"What did we get?" Sherlock wrinkled his nose, looking at the bags John held. One was heavier than the other. "Candles, and—"

"Chocolates."

"Boring and cliché."

"You could have gone shopping yourself," John said. 

"Mm." He could have, but he didn't care to. He held up his hand for a cab, then climbed in after John. 

The party was not enjoyable. Few parties were, but at least he was with John. Sherlock sipped at a glass of punch and followed him around, wishing cops were better at baking. There were platters of store-bought mince pies and biscuits and little else. Molly was here, but even she hadn't bothered to make anything from scratch.

Eventually it was time for the gift exchange. They dragged chairs around a table where all of the gifts had been anonymously deposited. Lestrade got everyone's attention so he could explain the rules to them.

"Rules? What rules?" Sherlock asked. "We bring a gift, we take a gift. It couldn't be any simpler."

"No, that's not how it works. The first person picks a gift and unwraps it. The next person can choose to steal that gift or pick a new one that's still wrapped."

"The police are advocating stealing now?" 

Lestrade sighed and emptied his beer bottle—he'd had a few already. "I'll go first, then we'll just move around the circle." He reached for one of the bags that John had brought.

"No, not that one, Lestrade. Those are candles—you'd rather have one of those bottles of wine." Sherlock pointed to the tall gift bags in the center of the table. "The candles are more to Donovan's taste."

"Sherlock, you're not supposed to give away what the gifts are!"

Sherlock shrugged. "The wine bottles are obvious, and if you weren't on your fourth beer already, you would be able to smell the candles."

Lestrade shook his head and opened the bag anyway, pulling out a set of...three candles, scented with pine, peppermint and gingerbread. "I like candles," he insisted.

Sherlock sighed and slumped in his chair. Two turns later, Donovan stole the candles from Lestrade and Lestrade ended up with a bottle of wine, but Sherlock was too bored to gloat.

When it was his turn to choose a gift, Sherlock reached for the other gift bag that John had brought to the party.

"You can't pick that one," Anderson objected. "That's the one you brought!"

"No, it's not. John brought it."

"Yeah, but you know what it is already."

"Do you really think I went shopping with him, or paid a bit of attention to what he got? And anyway, I know what nearly all of these gifts are." He sat back down, cradling the bag, knowing that John would have spent the full amount on quality chocolate rather than going for a larger quantity of the cheap stuff. "It's your turn, John."

John picked up one of the packages that was left. A large box, nearly square, obviously contributed by Molly, but without being able to pick it up to test the weight and heft of it, Sherlock couldn't be sure what it contained.

"No guesses, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock frowned. "Um, something practical." 

John tore off the paper and lifted the box so everyone could see. "It's a foot bath."

"A foot bath?" Sherlock scowled.

"I have one myself," Molly said. "It massages your feet, and will heat the water up and keep it warm for you, and you can add bath salts to it if you want. It's really brilliant after a long day at work."

John turned the box around, reading the description on the sides. "It does sound lovely, Molly. It must have cost more than twenty-five pounds, though."

"No, it didn't. I got it on sale after Christmas last year." She gave a nervous giggle. "Because I knew we'd be doing this again this year." 

"Ah, very smart. Thank you, Molly."

"What do you need that for?" Lestrade leaned towards John. "You have Sherlock, if you need your feet massaged." 

John gave him a tight smile and cut his eyes sideways to Sherlock.

Sherlock tried not to react; hopefully everyone was too drunk to see how much he wanted to put his hands on John right now, although his feet weren't the first part of his body that he'd like to touch.

"Aw, Sherlock, come on! Can't you give the poor man a foot rub now and then?" Lestrade waved his bottle of beer in Sherlock's direction, laughing, then sat up straight again. "Okay, who's up next? Anderson. There's only one gift left, and Sherlock has deduced it's a bottle of wine. You want to trade for something someone else already has?"

"Hmm, well." Anderson put his hand on his chin and made a show of surveying everyone seated around the table. "I would use the foot bath, but I won't steal that from you, John, since it seems that Sherlock is shirking his duty." 

"My duty? To rub his feet? "

"Yes. You know." Anderson made some sort of incomprehensible hand motion between him and John. "But I do like chocolate." He put his hand out towards Sherlock, beckoning for his gift bag. 

"You can't take the chocolates. There could be nuts in them. Your daughter has a nut allergy, and you have her for Christmas Day this year. What would your ex do if she found out?"

"I could eat them all myself before Christmas," Anderson grumbled, but picked up the bag with the last bottle of wine in it, instead. 

"Okay, thank you everyone!" Lestrade clapped his hands together once. "That was lots of fun. I'll be sure to drink my wine before the new year, so I can start January with my usual resolutions." 

Everyone else laughed at Lestrade's sorry joke and began to gather up their gifts. Sherlock stood up, hoping to make a quick escape. 

Rather than cooperating with his desire for a fast getaway, John started to help move the chairs back to where they belonged. 

Sherlock stood watching him for a moment, distracted enough that he was ambushed by Molly.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry about that."

"Sorry about what?"

"My gift. I didn't mean for John to—I thought one of the patrol officers who were on their feet all day might like it."

"Nothing to apologize for, Molly." He peered past her, trying to see if John was ready to leave yet.

"I know, it's just.... They shouldn't have—" She looked up at him without finishing her sentence.

Sherlock pursed his lips, then nodded. "No, they shouldn't have," he said. "But it doesn't matter. Neither John nor I care much about what other people say, you should know that by now." He lifted his chin and turned away from Molly, pretending that what he said to her was true.


	20. Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed 2 ficlets today, both longer than ficlet-length! I might actually get this done before Christmas.

Rosie was asleep when they got back from the party, so John left her downstairs with Mrs. Hudson for the night. He went upstairs to find Sherlock had traded his suit jacket for his dressing gown, and was sitting in his armchair, scrolling on his phone. He hadn't lit a fire, though, which meant he didn't expect to be up for long. John wasn't sure why he was disappointed—when had spending an evening sitting in front of a fire with Sherlock become more appealing than staying out late at a party with friends? He sighed, knowing that he'd preferred Sherlock's company to socializing with others since the day they met.

He dropped the box with the foot bath in the corner of the room—he'd keep it upstairs, he supposed. For some reason Sherlock had seemed upset at the gift, although John didn't understand why. John himself hadn't been pleased with all the jokes the Yarders had made about foot massages, but Sherlock had never been bothered by that sort of insinuation in the past. 

He crossed the room and put his hands on the back of his own chair, leaning his weight against it. "I might have a sandwich—thought there'd be more food at the party. You want anything?"

Sherlock shook his head, then flinched as his phone buzzed with a text message. 

"Whoa, you okay?" John asked.

Sherlock exhaled and nodded. "Just caught me by surprise. Wasn't expecting a text."

"Aren't you going to read it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's not—" he began, and then pulled his phone from the pocket of his dressing gown. "It's just Wiggins." 

"Wiggins?" John's evening, which hadn't been great, got considerably worse. "What does he want? He'd better not be trying to sell you something." He had sworn off violence, but would make an exception to beat Wiggins to a pulp if he came anywhere near this flat with drugs.

Sherlock's lip curled as he typed out a message on his phone. "He is trying to sell me something. A Christmas tree." 

"What?"

"Wiggins has a job selling Christmas trees and wants to know if we need one. I told him we've already got one and have had it up for weeks." He nodded to the decorated tree that stood behind his chair.

John uncurled his fists, stretching his fingers out across his chairback. "Nice to hear he's legitimately employed."

"I'm sure it doesn't pay nearly as well as his old job." Sherlock glanced down at his phone again. "He says only old married couples put their trees up so early."

John snorted. "Well, he's got the old part right, at least."

"Yes." Sherlock dropped his phone onto the table next to his chair and stood up. "I'm going to bed."

"Okay." John took a step back and looked up at Sherlock's face. "You look tired. How much did you have to drink at that party?"

"Almost nothing," Sherlock said, and strode past him without another word.

John let himself slump against the chair for a few moments, then gave up and walked around it to sit down. He wasn't hungry anymore, and knew he should go upstairs to get ready for bed. He had no reason to sit here feeling sorry for himself. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed—that was the problem. Their friends and casual acquaintances were still making jokes about him and Sherlock being a couple and Sherlock still wasn't interested. The hugs and tiny kisses they had shared in the past few weeks hadn't meant anything more than friendship, though to John they felt like more. 

He sat in his chair for a while, forcing his mind away from thinking about Sherlock, but there was nothing else he wanted to think about. He closed his eyes and wriggled deeper into the chair, wondering at the wisdom of trying to fall asleep here. 

He was startled out of near-sleep a few minutes later when Sherlock's phone, left on the table next to his chair, received a text. A text with a very distinctive notification sound. Why was The Woman texting him tonight? To wish him a Merry Christmas a few days ahead of the holiday? Or were she and Sherlock still in touch with each other frequently? 

John swallowed, reminding himself that it was none of his business who or why Sherlock texted. He stood up, making himself head upstairs to his own room, so he wouldn't be tempted to look at Sherlock's phone and read—or delete—Irene's message. He scowled at the foot bath as he walked past it, but didn't stop to pick it up. 

He should've had more to drink at the party—if he'd been as tipsy as Lestrade had been, he would be able to fall asleep, but now that he was upstairs alone in his room, he was no longer tired. He got changed for bed and lay down on top of the covers, staring up at the ceiling. The last time he knew for sure that Sherlock had heard from Irene had been on his birthday, nearly two years ago now. John had told him to text her back, though he didn't think Sherlock had followed his advice. He hadn't really wanted him to; he'd just been jealous that Irene was still alive, and Mary was gone. He'd still been talking to Mary, then, imagining that she was with him whenever he had thoughts he wanted to avoid thinking directly.

He wished she were here now. Even though he wanted to be with Sherlock, at least if Mary were still alive, he wouldn't be alone. He hated being alone—it brought out all his worst memories, reminded him of how he'd felt when he'd been invalided out of the army and ended up by himself in London, all purpose to his life gone.

"Then don't be alone."

Imaginary Mary. He didn't want to see her, but he couldn't stop himself from looking. She sat on the foot of his bed, less substantial than she had been when he'd imagined her after she died. His memory of her had faded since then.

"Don't be alone. Go down and talk to Sherlock. Tell him how you feel. He might surprise you."

"Shut up." John said it aloud, knowing he was talking to himself. He closed his eyes and tried to get his own imagination under control. One beer. He'd had one beer tonight and now he was talking to his dead wife again.

He rolled over on the mattress and pulled his knees up to his chest. Fetal position. Nice. He really needed to—

His phone beeped with a text. No one texted him this late at night, except for Sherlock, but Sherlock had his own text alert sound, and that wasn't it. At least he knew it wasn't Mary, imaginary or otherwise, texting him. He reached over to pull his phone off the bedside table.

The number on the screen was unfamiliar, from outside of the UK, based on the country code. He wrinkled his brow and tapped on the message to open it. 

_-Sherlock wants dinner, but not with me._

Dinner? Who had sent this? He knew, though; he'd just heard her texting Sherlock a few minutes ago. While he was staring at the message, another text popped up below it.

_-Are you still not gay?_

What? What was she saying? She knew how he felt about Sherlock, even if he'd never said the word "bisexual" out loud to her. Dinner—was she really saying what he thought she was, about Sherlock?

One more text came through as his mind spun.

_-Merry Christmas_

John exhaled a shaky breath and put down his phone. Lestrade had been joking, tonight at the party, and Anderson was probably too oblivious to realize that he and Sherlock weren't actually a couple. But The Woman. Irene. She wouldn't joke about this. Was Sherlock really interested in him, after all these years? How did she know? Had she and Sherlock been texting each other...about him?

John rolled onto his back again and glanced at the end of his bed, where he'd seen Mary earlier. She was no longer there, but he could still hear her speak, in his mind. "Go on, John. Do it. Go downstairs, and tell Sherlock what you feel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more installments left. The next prompt is Love and then I've combined Friends & Family with Merry Christmas for the final chapter. They're not actually written yet, so wish me luck!


	21. Love

As John reached the landing outside Sherlock's flat, Mrs. Hudson was coming up the stairs towards him. "Oh, John, there you are. I was just coming up to see.... Did you and Sherlock have your little talk yet?"

"We—" He frowned at her, wondering how she had known what he was about to do. "I'm just about to go talk to him now."

"Oh, good," she said. "Good. I'm glad he listened to me and finally did something about it. I'll leave you two alone. Have a good night!"

John stared in confusion as she turned around and headed back down the stairs. He shook his head and continued into Sherlock's flat. There was no sign of Sherlock; he must have gone to bed, as he'd said he would. He could be asleep already. Maybe this could wait—no. John didn't need the ghost of his wife or a mysterious text from a dominatrix to tell him that if he didn't do it now, he'd never work up the nerve to do it again. 

Sherlock's phone was still on the table near his chair, which meant he hadn't seen whatever text The Woman had sent. John picked it up and slipped it into the pocket of his dressing gown, then went down the hall to knock on Sherlock's bedroom door.

There was the rustling sound of Sherlock getting out of bed and then the door opened. He was still wearing his dress shirt and trousers beneath his dressing gown, so he presumably hadn't been asleep yet. "John?"

"Hi, yes. Sorry." John cleared his throat and pulled Sherlock's phone from his pocket, holding it out between them. "You've got a text."

Sherlock took the phone but dropped it into his own pocket instead of looking at it. "John, I've been meaning to talk to you."

"No, the text. You have to—" John pinched his lips together in consternation. "I got a text, too. Several of them."

Sherlock continued to ignore both him and his own phone. "I was talking with Mrs. Hudson earlier, before the party. She said the same thing as Eurus—"

"Eurus?" 

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, frowning, then asked, "Who texted you? Not Eurus, I hope. She's not supposed to have access to a mobile."

"No, no, Eurus didn't—" John was completely lost. "What did Eurus and Mrs. Hudson say to you?" 

Sherlock took a deep breath and straightened up to his full height. "I don't want you to use that foot bath, John."

"Sorry, what?" John squinted at him. He was definitely sure that he and Sherlock were both awake, but this conversation felt as surreal as a dream.

"I don't know how to give a foot massage, but I'm willing to learn."

"You—" John stopped, trying to make sense of what he'd said. Did he mean—? "Sherlock."

"Yes?"

"I got a text tonight. Three texts. From Irene Adler." He looked up and locked eyes with Sherlock. "She said you wanted to have dinner."

"Oh." Sherlock blinked at him. "I do. Not with her. With you."

"Yes." The lump of tension in John's chest started to dissolve. "That's what she said. I'd like to have dinner with you, as well."

Sherlock broke into a giant grin. "Yes. Dinner. Well, not tonight—it's too late for dinner now—but she was using dinner as a metaphor—"

"Yes, yes. I understand her metaphor. I didn't think you wanted—"

"I didn't think you wanted! I've kissed you twice but you didn't seem—"

"Because you weren't interested! I mean, I thought you weren't, you've always said—"

"Don't listen to what I've said! I didn't know what I was talking about. It's Rosie's fault."

"Rosie?" John thought he'd started to follow the conversation, but maybe he was misunderstanding.

"Yes. Well, not a fault. A positive fault. Rosie was the catalyst."

John narrowed his eyes for a moment. "Oh! When she told us to kiss."

"Yes. Yes. I didn't know before then."

"You didn't know that I wanted you?"

"No, I didn't know that until just now. But I didn't know that I wanted to kiss you before Rosie made us do it."

"Really?"

"Really. I knew I loved you, and that you loved me. But I didn't think kissing was worth it, not when it might endanger our friendship, if you knew I wanted to kiss you but didn't want to kiss me back."

"Do you want to kiss me again?"

"Yes, more than anything."

"Come here." John reached out and tugged at the tie of Sherlock's dressing gown, and Sherlock stepped willingly into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm that writer who will write a smutty Christmas tree ficlet but then fade to black rather than having to describe a kiss.
> 
> One more chapter to go!


	22. Friends & Family and Merry Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Combining the last two prompts for this one:  
> 23: Friends and Family  
> 24: Merry Christmas
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read these ficlets or participated in the challenge themselves! I wasn't sure if I wanted to do it this year, and I cut a few corners to make it easier on myself, but I hope they brought some joy and welcome distraction to those of you who have been reading. Merry Christmas!

Sherlock unbuckled Rosie from her car seat and helped her climb out to stand in the drive of his parents' house. There was a light dusting of snow on the grass and more in the air; she immediately began trying to catch some of it in her mouth.

"So, are we telling your parents about us?" John asked, as he pulled their luggage out of the boot.

"Of course we are." Sherlock looked at him. "Why wouldn't we? Do you not want them to know?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I just wasn't sure how you felt about it."

"I don't actually care if they know anything about my personal life at all, but I'm planning to sleep in the same bed with you again tonight, so it would be easiest if we told them first."

"Good. Good." John smiled at him and Sherlock grinned back, then they turned as one to tell Rosie to stop trying to eat the few flakes of snow she had managed to collect from the ground. 

Sherlock knocked once on the front door and then let himself in, only to find Mycroft sitting in the living room, in front of the wood stove. "What are you doing here?" 

Mycroft folded down the newspaper he'd been reading. "This is my parents' house, the traditional place for family to gather to celebrate the holidays, I believe?" He picked up the tea sitting next to him and took a sip, staring at Sherlock over the top of the cup.

"Yes, but you hate Christmas." Sherlock put down the suitcase he'd been carrying and turned to hold the door open for John, who had Rosie in his arms. 

"True," Mycroft said. "While you seem to enjoy it now, as if you're some sort of...family man."

Sherlock scowled at him, unsure if Mycroft was trying to insult him, but ready to disagree with him on principle anyway.

John set Rosie down and she ran through the living room towards the kitchen; she hadn't been here since the summertime, but she remembered where Mummy kept all the sweets. A few moments later, Mummy herself appeared, carrying Rosie in her arms. "Sherlock! John! Happy Christmas Eve! Mycroft, did you even say hello to your brother and his...friend?"

"We've spoken, Mummy." Mycroft lifted the newspaper again. Sherlock hoped the fact that he was here already meant that he would be leaving soon and they wouldn't have to put up with him on Christmas Day.

"Where's Daddy?" Sherlock asked. "Is he in the kitchen?"

"No, no. He's upstairs pottering around, I think."

"Daddy!" Sherlock yelled up the stairs, but received no answer. He probably wasn't wearing his hearing aids. Sherlock scowled—he wanted everyone in one place so he could tell them about him and John. "I'll go find him," he said, and picked up both of the suitcases they had packed and carried them up the stairs, towards the bedrooms. 

"Oh, Sherlock. Hello. I thought I heard you come in." Daddy wandered out of the room at the end of the hallway. "I was just watering the plants. I do it every Sunday, except the spider plants and snake plant are every other week." 

"That's fascinating," Sherlock said, and then did a double-take. The room Daddy had just come out of was his old bedroom, and there hadn't been any plants in there the last time he'd visited. "What plants?"

"Oh, we moved all the houseplants into here," Daddy said. "It gets the best light in the house. Would you like to see?" He ushered Sherlock into the bedroom. 

There were at least two dozen plants scattered throughout the room, on tables and windowsills and hung from the ceiling. "What happened to my bed?" There was a bed in the room, but it was low to the ground and the mattress was at least a foot shorter than standard—a toddler bed, instead of the full-size one he'd had growing up.

"Oh, we got this one for Rosie," Daddy said. "Mummy's idea, it was." Daddy bit at his lip and looked at him.

"Okay," Sherlock said. He planned to sleep with John, anyway, but his parents couldn't have known that. He lifted the larger of the suitcases he was carrying. "I'll just put this—"

"You'll have to decide where you want to sleep," Mummy interrupted. She had come up the stairs behind him. "Mycroft's in his old room, of course. The guest room is made up for John, with the bigger bed, but you can sleep on the futon down in the garden room. It shouldn't be too cold—we have plenty of blankets."

"The garden room." That was where most of the plants had previously been, in the large space at the back of the house that had plenty of windows but not enough insulation to be comfortable at this time of year. "I'm not sleeping in the garden room."

"Well, you could share the bed with John, I suppose," Mummy said. "As long as he doesn't mind and neither one of you is a sprawler."

Sherlock frowned at her. Her suggestion was perfect, of course, but he didn't understand why she was making it, or why his parents had rearranged half of the rooms in the house. They knew they would be having guests for Christmas, and the previous arrangement of beds had been ideal. Last year, he'd slept in his old bedroom while John and Rosie shared the guest room.

"Sherlock?" John's voice cut into his thinking. "Everything okay up here?" John's hand was on his arm now, and Rosie ran past them to jump onto the small bed in the room full of plants.

"Yes, yes." Sherlock briefly touched John's hand on his arm, then pulled away. He just needed to say to his parents that he and John would be happy to sleep together because they were now a couple. So why couldn't he say that? He wasn't ashamed. How could anyone be ashamed to say they were sleeping with John, of all people? But he was still hesitant. He'd never had a significant other before, never brought anyone home to his parents. Never told them he was interested in men. Never mentioned his sexuality at all, and they had never asked. What were they going to say? They would most likely be accepting—he'd never seen any indication that they wouldn't be—but even so, their perception of him was going to change when they learned that he and John were together. And he didn't know—

John put his hand on his arm again and squeezed, then called out to Rosie. "Come here, sweetheart." 

She ran back over to him and John let go of Sherlock's arm and squatted down to give her a hug and a kiss. "Do you have a hug and a kiss for Sherlock, too?" 

Rosie threw her arms around Sherlock's legs and planted a kiss on his hand. 

"Good enough," John said. "How about a hug for Gran and Grandad?" Rosie had been using those names for them since she learned how to speak. She ran over to them now, and Daddy swept her up into his arms.

John stepped even closer to Sherlock, and looked up into his eyes. "Our turn," he said.

Sherlock blinked at him, then nodded. John's arms slipped around his waist, and he tipped his head up. Sherlock lowered his until their lips met and they shared a kiss, bodies touching, mouths ever-so-slightly open. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the kiss carry him away for a few seconds. When it was over, he was relieved to find that he had, in fact, survived kissing and being kissed by John in front of his parents. 

"Well now," Mummy said. "That was much easier than I expected. I didn't even need to use the mistletoe."

"Mistletoe?"

Mummy pointed to the sprig that hung in the doorway. "There's one in every room. Why don't we all go back downstairs? There's plenty of food to eat, and tea. And Sherlock, I think you and John must have some news that you want to share."

**Author's Note:**

> This is my 6th year of writing ficlets in December. [Here are all the rest if you're interested in reading more.](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Bfreeform_ids%5D%5B%5D=471&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=MissDavis)


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